


Embers

by Trixen



Category: Veronica Mars (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-18 04:36:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4692314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trixen/pseuds/Trixen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After 'Not Pictured'. Weevil's a Priest, Logan's searching and Veronica is running scared.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Embers

  
How long is a day in the dark?  
  
Seven years?  
  
+

  
Eli is quoting from John; “Let us love, not in word or speech, but in truth and action.” Veronica feels itchy, anxious, her hair a heavy rope down her back. It sweeps to her waist now, a welcome mask to hide behind. She stares up at Eli in his priest’s robes and notes with satisfaction the perfect clean crease down the center. There is a crescent shaped burn mark on her thumb from the iron, and it still throbs. It is as red as poinsettias and yet she ignores it, for she feels it was worth it. A priest should look _clean_ , safe, and Eli has become that, shedding his wild skins like a snake would in a forest.  
  
Reaching up, she twists her hair around her wrist and holds it away from her flesh. She is sweating. Too many bodies around her. It is one of the days when she feels like crawling out of her flesh. It, after all, is her ultimate betrayer. Any moment she may hear the terrible, intimate whisper of the gun against her ear.   
  
She will have to answer.  
  
Veronica is not sure what she would say. If she could ask for mercy—but ask who? God? Her executioner? The ghosts from her past? But then again, she would feel at home with them now. Veronica, Lilly, Cassidy, all walking the Ghost Roads together. But in many ways, they all chose to die and Veronica resents that. Lilly was skating on that line between light and dark, semen on her breath and rage untold beneath her skin. Cassidy stepped off the roof into a night that reeked of airplane fuel and burning stars. But Veronica?  
  
She just wanted to go to New York. And instead she was packed up and shipped off, never to be seen again. Eli likes to compare her to Romeo, fleeing Verona for Mantua. But Veronica doesn’t see any Shakespearean valor in what she did—in what her Father chose. All she sees is cowardice.   
  
He is still quoting. “The wicked flee when no man pursueth: but the righteous are bold as a lion.” His voice takes on the tone of ‘Great Meaning’ and she knows he means the words to be for her. He winks at her, and she rolls her eyes.  
  
They are still Weevil and V, as much as she would like to pretend otherwise. She holds two fingers up, inviting him to _rock on_. He smiles toothily; he cannot help it, she knows.   
  
Veronica slips from the pew and opens the doors, walking down the steps. A beggar grasps her skirt and she panics for a moment. But it is not Wiedman (would they get Clarence to do it?) and so she slips money into the little brown bowl and continues on her way. She looks back once, because she likes to know where she is coming from. It is a small, misshapen Church, the only one of its kind in Marrakesh. He opened it after he fled Neptune, the murder charge a target on his back and she knows, in some ways, he followed her here. Protection? Misguided love? She doesn't know and she doesn't mind. The Church has become as dear to her as a lover; no blood can be spilled while she resides within the walls. She loves the mosques, but is too frightened to enter them. The blonde of her hair is what Eli calls _unheimlech_ and she knows, it is a lantern in the dead of night.   
  
Heading west, Veronica walks in the heavy heat toward the _souk_ , where she knows she’ll find a cheap lunch. She doesn’t really eat anymore and in the mornings, she stands naked in front of the mirror, mourning in a vague way. She never used to care about her body, it got her from point A to point B. But now, she wonders if she is trying to disappear. She fears not disappearing.  
  
Turning down an alley, she finds her favorite stall. “Hello,” she says to the old woman behind the counter. She likes the woman because she never changes. She looks like she might sleep in the stall, with the smell of grease and horse heavy around her. “The usual, please.”  
  
The woman nods. There is a large mole just above her lip, and Veronica loves that too. She hands her the money and the woman gives her a bowl of sticky rice and a Styrofoam cup of tea.  
  
“Thank you,” Veronica says.  
  
The woman nods. And they part. Veronica leaves the stall behind. The tarp stank of oranges and rain and she is happy to be away from it. As she sips her grainy tea, she walks through the bazaar, happy just to glance over the tables of merchandise. There are bushels of spice (saffron is her favorite) and containers of fake gold jewelry. Tourists are bartering with the shopkeepers and it is a comforting cacophony of noise.   
  
She passes ancient prayer wheels and puzzle pieces. There is an elaborate _Bagha-Chall_ set up on one table. It is there every week and it never fails to make her nervous. She stops, torturing herself. The man behind the stall smiles; he is amused by her, believes she cannot afford the game. She can’t, but it wouldn’t matter. She doesn’t want it. Every piece has been cut from marble, and painted exquisitely. Each tiger, each goat.   
  
She feels bitter for a moment. Veronica Mars, the tiger, now running like a little goat. Trying to escape the slaughter, the hot breath, the meaty tongue against her throat. She’s been reduced to a game piece, attempting to out-strategize her faceless partner.  
  
“I barter with you,” the man says.  
  
“I’m not a bartering kind of girl,” Veronica says and turns away.  
  
Suddenly the tea begins to taste sour. It doesn’t really surprise her. But he is still standing there, in the middle of the bustling _souk_ , and the tea is _really_ sour now, like promises not kept. _Everything will be fine_. Why did she say such a stupid thing? She knew he would come for her, but she had hoped it would be when she was old and grey and he wouldn’t want her anymore.  
  
But somehow even she knows that hope is a lie.   
  
He will always long for her, she can see it in his eyes, even now. With all the rags of his heart.  
  
“Hi Veronica,” Logan says, and blinks. He lifts his hand and scratches behind his ear. “Fancy meeting you here.”  
  
She can’t believe for a moment that he's joking around. But maybe seven years doesn’t change people that much.   
  
“What are you doing here, Logan?” she asks coolly, walking forward and ahead of him. She feels him follow her. “Vacationing in Morocco?”  
  
“Got sold into white slavery,” he says. “Very sad. My Pimp is somewhere ‘round here, auctioning me off to the highest bidder. I’m holding out for one lady; she looks sturdy, like she’d take me for a good ride.”  
  
She glances back at him. He is sweaty and looks wonderful in shorts and a T-shirt, a rucksack on his back. But she is angry and God, this is horrible. Someone who _knows_ her is breathing in her geography.  
  
“What do you want? You have to go.”  
  
“Oh c’mon, Veronica, we should grab a coffee. Reminisce.”  
  
She leaves the _souk_ and heads into the _Djemaa el Fna_ – the square which holds the name ‘the Assembly of the Dead’. She thinks that is appropriate and does not look to see if he is following her. But she doesn’t have to. She’s pretty sure she can smell him. The sharpness of male sweat and the salty spray of the ocean.   
  
“Or maybe some orange juice? I’ve heard they’re famous for it here.”  
  
She whirls around, stops cold. “How did you find me? Did you tell anyone else where I was?”  
  
“Yes indeed! I told the entire Casablancas family,” Logan says, placing a finger against his lips. “Kendall’s waiting around that corner for you now.”  
  
“How can you _joke_?” she cries. “They almost _murdered_ me.”  
  
“You think I don’t know that?” he snaps. “I haven’t spent the past seven years _knitting_ , Veronica. I’ve been searching for you.”  
  
“But didn’t my father—“  
  
“Yeah, he told me to move on,” Logan’s lips twist derisively. “Its like he doesn’t get those words aren’t in my vocabulary. I don’t move on from things that bother me as much that did.”  
  
“Well—“  
  
“You didn’t even say _Goodbye_. You told me you’d be gone a week.”  
  
“God, Logan.” She's disgusted. “That’s what bothered you?”  
  
“What can I say? I swim in the shallow end of the pool.”  
  
“Well, go swim somewhere else,” Veronica turns away and walks further into the square. Her boots make stinging noises against the concrete. “You’re in my way.”  
  
He keeps pace with her and their palms brush. “You still smell of marshmallows.”  
  
She can’t help but laugh. “You’re still using cheesy lines. Don’t you think its time to grow up, Logan?”  
  
“Arrested development,” he muses. “My girlfriend vanished when I was eighteen and I’ve been in a time warp ever since. I never thought you’d take my words seriously, you know.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Spanning years and continents? Did ya really have to go all the way to Morocco? I would’ve settled for South Dakota.”  
  
She raises her eyebrows.  
  
“I’ve always wanted to go to Mount Rushmore.”  
  
“I thought you didn’t remember what you said at the prom.”  
  
“Temporary amnesia.”  
  
“I hear slutty brunettes will give you that.”  
  
“It was more the mass quantities,” he says.   
  
She is silent for a moment. “Did my Dad tell you anything?”  
  
“You mean—about Big Dick’s plan?”  
  
“More than that.”  
  
“Well after Kendall sashayed into his office and told him the Casablancas had put a hit out on you, your Dad freaked and ran for the airport. But he didn’t realize Kendall was in on it, and so then there was the whole incident with you nearly getting your brains splattered all over the luggage carousel at LAX. I kinda got the picture. But what he didn’t let me in on is why you didn’t even bother to say sayonara to me before you split. Or—“  
  
“You think I had _time_ for that? I didn’t get time. I didn’t even get to go home. My Dad took me from the hospital to the airport and told me to lose myself. What was I supposed to do?”  
  
“Were all your fingers broken? No? Then I think phoning me could’ve been option one.”  
  
“And say what?”  
  
“Goodbye, Logan, we had a good run, but I won’t be back for season two.” He pauses, glances down at her. “Or you could’ve asked me to come with you. We were in love.”  
  
She feels a queer little ache in her belly and it journeys up to her breastbone. “We didn’t know what we were. You can’t be here. What if someone followed you?”  
  
“I’ve become adept at losing myself too, ya know, SpyBarbie.” Logan touches her arm. “Can’t we go somewhere and talk? I feel like we’re in the middle of _Arabian Nights_ with all of these snake charmers around and like, what is that? A monkey doing tricks?”  
  
“Its for the tourists,” she says wearily. “We can’t go back to the Church, Eli would kill me.”  
  
“A common theme for you. Gosh, Mars, you’re great at making friends.” He stops her from taking another step and forces her to look at him. “Who’s Eli?”  
  
Veronica shakes her head. “Eli Navarro. Weevil. I didn’t even know you could have a person-shaped brain fart. But I guess anything’s possible with you.”  
  
“He lives at a Church now? Man, times change.”  
  
“He’s a Priest.”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“Nevermind,” she says, exasperated. “You can’t just leave? It would make it easier. I don’t even know what you think is going to happen—“  
  
“Relax, Mars, I require dinner and a movie first. Plus I don’t know that I’d trust the hotels around here. Are there any five star—“  
  
“Shut up,” she snaps. “Just follow me and don’t make sounds.”  
  
He does. She knew he would.  
  
+  
  
As light surrenders to dark, Veronica finds them a quiet place at the edge of the _medina_ and she spreads out the sweater she keeps with her, sitting down and leaning against the old city wall. Logan doesn’t hesitate, as she thought he would, given the dirt. He sits down beside her, his legs drawn up to his chest. He rests his elbows on his knees and stares up at the sky.  
  
“Heard you tried to find Duncan. Or you were gonna,” he says.  
  
She shrugs. “Pipe dream. I couldn’t.”  
  
“What do you see in him?”  
  
“Safeness.”  
  
“And I’m too dangerous?”  
  
“Yes.” Veronica’s mouth hurts even as she says the word. “How are my friends?”  
  
“That doesn’t really hold too much intrigue for me, I confess.”  
  
“Logan, _please_.”  
  
He softens a bit. “Mac’s running her own company. Something geekish, I’m not really sure what its about. Wallace went to Hearst, he’s playing b-ball professionally now. I think he might’ve hooked up with that girl again—Jackie? Anyway, he’s cool.”  
  
Her chest aches. _Wallace_. “I can’t believe I’m asking, but how’s Dick?”  
  
“I didn’t think you’d want to know, given…”  
  
“It was his Dad. Not him.”  
  
“He’s not doing much. He lives at the beach.”  
  
“A surfer bum.”  
  
“Surfing expresses ... a pure yearning for visceral, physical contact with the natural world.,” Logan quotes, and smiles briefly. “Dick doesn’t have any other contact with the world. He’s never really gotten over all the shit that happened.”  
  
“Right.” Veronica doesn’t want to talk about _that_. “Understandable. Have I missed anyone?”  
  
“What about your Dad?”  
  
“No. It’s too—no. I don’t want to.”  
  
“That’s ok.”  
  
“It’s not ok,” she says, and is horrified when tears sting her eyes. “God, I’m sorry. I never cry in front of people.”  
  
“Veronica,” he touches her chin and tilts her face up. “You’ve cried in front of me like a zillion times.”  
  
“Ha ha,” she says dryly. His eyes. The fire of them. That bad-boy look. She had forgotten, and now she is remembering, all at once. “Why did you look for me, Logan?”  
  
He doesn’t respond, simply draws her into his arms. She shudders, but he just strokes her hair back from her forehead. She presses her hot cheek against his heart and hears the constant thrum of it beneath flesh and bone.   
  
“You know the answer to that,” he finally whispers, against her hairline, where she is warm and damp.  
  
“We were in love.”   
  
“We still are,” he says hoarsely and tips her face up. When he kisses her, she cannot help but weep, because he tastes of home and there have been so many lonely nights, so many lonely lonely days.   
  
“I can’t go home,” she says. “I’m afraid. I can’t. If I go home, they’ll find me and kill me and I can’t do that to my Dad.”  
  
“Your Dad was the one who sent me this time.”  
  
“What?”  
  
His palm cups her face. “I’ve been searching, but I could never find you. I don’t know why I expected to be able to. God, you’re the girl who can lose herself—you did it professionally. But I still searched. I’ve been obsessed. I came home for a bit last week and your Dad called me—he found the hit man. He tracked down Big Dick and Kendall and they’re all in jail.”  
  
“What?” she repeats wonderingly.  
  
“Veronica, he sent me to bring you home.”  
  
Her lips part and she smiles, weeping, kissing him, unable to speak. They stay there, by the wall, until dawn. He sleeps in her arms, exhausted from his voyage. She cannot sleep, for her real journey is finally beginning.   
  
Logan breathes against her, content and sleep-warm, and she looks down at him, her mouth swollen with kisses. She raises her face to the sky.  
  
The day begins with light.   
  
**~Finis**


End file.
